A Song In The Dark
by Inspirationally Red
Summary: Sometimes, when Stork cannot sleep, he sits in the dark, lights a candle and thinks about his past. Oneshot Aerrow/Stork


**Title: A Song In The Dark **

**Rated: T+ **

**Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst **

**Disclaimer: Storm Hawks belongs to NerdCorps. **

**Summary: Sometimes, when Stork cannot sleep, he sits in the dark, lights a candle and thinks about his past. Oneshot Aerrow/Stork **

The blackness was whispering, dripping hungrily down the edges of the room, and pooling in dark puddles at his feet.

Complete darkness.

The rasp of a match against the striking edge, sparks, and suddenly Stork had a weapon against the dark, a red-gold glow that barely lit his fingers, as the flame blossomed in the blackness. Most of his candles were little more than stubs of congealed wax, pointing up with wicks like charred knives as he transferred the flame to each. Flickering shadows dappled his way as he lit one small candle before proceeding to the other. Within moments, a row of glowing candles was providing the wavering light source for him, and he was able to fall back on the balls of his feet with a relieved sigh.

He always raced to get the candles lit before the flame died out. It was a superstition of his, and one that had kept him company throughout the long nights alone. The candles provided little warmth though, and his breath clouded the air in a gust of white.

Complete silence. Marred only by the familiar creaks and groaning of the Condor's metal plates as she glided through the night, safe on autopilot. The myriad of creaking was a comfort to him, a song as real and visceral as any love song, whispered to him between the layers of helmet-induced dreaming.

But there were times when trances weren't enough.

His breath hovers shakily in the air, hanging suspended, fragile as any butterfly, with paper wings that refused to move. Inside its cage, his spider clicks its pincers in its sleep, the snap skittering across the pane of silence like ice splinters skittering against glass. Loud. Grating.

His breath is a shaky white cloud, and he begins to sing.

It begins wordless; a low, rising croon that echoed of things left unsaid, of places left to wander in the dark. It gradually builds, rising in a crescendo of dizzying notes, as his long green fingers tapped out the rhythm on the cold metal floor, and the light from the candles swirled and danced.

"Sleep, sleep…"

It was desperate, a longing, a keen for the things he could not have. For his sleep was stained by the black blood of nightmares, and his dreams a twisting chasm.

_years alone, years afraid, years of languishing beside the Condor as she steadily listed sideways and the lava worms snarled with burning eyes from in between the shadows that stank of sulphur and soot…_

On the candle, the flame had stilled its wild dance. The white wax had turned clear and a drop slides around the candle, like a sheet over a pale body in a morgue.

_the sky a roaring red maw, smoke and jet fuel sprouting black against the bloody sunset and the Cyclonians were coming, but it was okay, they were safe, nobody could get past the disasters… _

Wetness winds down his cheeks and his breath stutters as he remembers his family; the father, the mother, the sacrifices. His sobs hack chunks from the silence and leaves it mangled and broken.

Normally he wouldn't think about it, but there were times – when the nights grew too long or too cold, when the wind howled through the skies like a crazed beast, when the darkness hissed tempting promises of an easier life back in the shadows…

Yes, there had been a time he had been steeped in shadows. Shadows, and the threat of the Wastelands.

"Fire, fire, burning bright…"

Outside his room, the silence is shattered by footsteps on metal, and Stork raises his head.

Clank clank clank.

The flame dwindles into the wax and drowns. The soft remnants lie warped and melted.

A hand touches his.

He jumps. A strangled scream catches and freezes in his throat. The candles are pools of wax in their chipped china cups. His song dissipates and dies.

"I thought that was you," Aerrow says.

He crouches, tense and unmoving. He doesn't know what to speak, what do to, what to say. Movement has drained from his rattling limbs, and his breath comes in panicked, wounded puffs.

"Wha-what are you doing here?" Stork croaks.

Aerrow sits down beside him, drawing his knees to his chest, his green eyes concerned. "I heard someone… were you singing?"

He sounds so accusatory that Stork musters a snort. "Well, it's not exactly a cause of doom."

Aerrow quirks an eyebrow and grins at him. "Well," he said. "That's the first time I've ever heard you say that."

Stork didn't answer, dropping his head and staring at the burnt-out wick of one of the candles. The wick was a twisted black husk. It smelt of dead wood and cold, cold ashes.

"What have…" Aerrow begins then stops and sniffs the air. "Have you been burning something?"

"Just those." Stork gestures at the candles.

Aerrow's gaze softens. "Why?"

_Because they're prayer candles…_

Stork doesn't answer. The coldness of the night seems to make the air hang heavy, ice-cold gauze that caught at the back of his throat. He closes his eyes but the tears snak down beneath his eyelids and his voice becomes a low rasp. "Did you ever know your family, Aerrow?"

That was all the explanation Aerrow needed. He stares down, tracking the pilot's gaze to the candles, and his eyes trapped a deep sadness. "Not really. I was an orphan, so…" he trails off.

No further explanation was needed. The room was cold, but the squadron leader was warm, warm enough for Stork to put his arm around him and huddle close without fear. Aerrow accepts the embrace, the closeness – each and every one of the Storm Hawks had all either comforted or been comforted whenever they were feeling miserable, so the touch came easily.

The wisp of smoke from the dying flames dissipated as they sit together in companionable silence in the ring of burnt-out candles, with only themselves and the moonlight for company.


End file.
